


(An incredibly flimsy use of) The Scientific Method

by cicak



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Gratuitous PWP, M/M, Spurious reasons for arrest, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started, as most things do, with an argument about exactly how much what had just happened was Sherlock’s fault.</p><p>For the kinkmeme prompt: Sherlock and John get it off somewhere in Scotland Yard ... only problem, that's not a wall, that's a two-way mirror, and most of the police are on the other side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(An incredibly flimsy use of) The Scientific Method

It started, as most things do, with an argument about exactly how much what had just happened was Sherlock’s fault.

“This is entirely, one hundred per cent, your fault.”

“John…”

“No, no, I absolutely do not care this time. Lestrade arrested us. Both of us, even though you were the one who broke into the abattoir in the first place.”

“I-“

“You told me we were going out to dinner, and now we’re charged with _cattle rustling_. You have no idea how much I hate you right now.”

“It’ll never stick and he knows it.”

“I – just, shut up. Don’t speak to me.”

 

Time passed, as it has a habit of. John fumed from with his back against the wall for a while, not at all watching Sherlock stretch across the table like it’s his favourite sofa, spine arched in a way that was unaffected by the uncomfortable laminate.

John closed his eyes.

“John. John. John. John.” Sherlock’s voice had that worrying edge to it, the one full of bravado that meant ‘I have a plan you might not like but I’m so pleased with myself I’ll say it anyway’.

John cracked open an eye and made an enquiring grunt.

“How’s your arm?”

“Sherlock-“

“Because I have a theory I’d like to test.”

“Still hate you.”

“-about how long the effect of adrenaline on muscle strength lasts in reasonably fit ex-army doctors”

“Sherlock-“

“Basically, I have a theory that you have enough adrenaline still in your system that you should be able to pick me up and fuck me against that wall. If you wanted to, that is. I don’t want to get in the way of your little snooze.”

John gaped for a moment, then slowly got up and extended his arm out. They both watched the absolute stillness in his limb with nothing whatsoever resembling _scientific_ curiosity.

John swallowed. “As a medical professional, I think your initial hypothesis is sound. I’d say you’d probably need to get ethical approval for rollout to a wider sample, but I’m willing to sign any waiver you need to get this experiment…off the ground, so to speak. Though you should find yourself a control, but there’s plenty of time for that”.

Sherlock was still standing on the other side of the room wearing too many clothes and an enormous pleased smile, but in three long strides John was on him, pushing him back hard enough to bruise both plaster and skin, kissing him roughly, Sherlock’s hands the ones shaking slightly as he stroked his face, his hips then pulling them together.

It was undignified getting prepared, undoing belts and button flies whilst trying not to get too lost in kisses or tangled in trouser legs, but then they were naked below the waist and it all kind of fell away into a smooth grind and slow burn.

They had had sex before but never with so much humour. Usually they were under the influence of the slow burn of anger, the acid burn of boredom or the acute wound of deep frustration and it would be horizontal, gentle, and oddly serious. This time was different, Sherlock was breathing heavily and short of breath but this time it was from laughing, and when John caught his eye and whispered ‘You ready?’ Sherlock hopped up and, with the help of John’s rock-steady hands, wrapped his long legs around John’s waist.  It was fluid and sexy and like a perfectly balanced equation, slotting together into the cradle of each other’s hips.

Dry frottage shouldn’t never be this amazing, John thought deliriously, but Sherlock was always so wet when he was turned on that they just slid together, and John was extremely happy that his arm was holding out because this was incredible, this was so worth missing a Saturday night for. He buried his head into Sherlock’s neck and breathed heavily against his jawline, hips snapping hard against Sherlock’s pelvis while his fingers slipped between the cheeks of his frankly amazing arse and it all locked together as Sherlock mewled above him and raked his fingers down John’s clothed back.

When John lifted his head to whisper into Sherlock’s ear he was presented with his own face staring back at him from over Sherlock’s shoulder. A moment of hysterical panic that he was being confronted with his doppleganger (and then the twist of anger that they had missed Doctor Who) was replaced with the uncomfortable realisation he was seeing his near-orgasm-face reflected in a mirror. A police mirror. The shock was enough to make him stop and scrunch his eyes up, as if Heisenberg’s theory could be proved by denial alone. Sherlock whinnied with lust (a noise John could never let him live down, once he was able to put him down) and dug his heels in.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me” Sherlock whined, eyes nearly black with pupils blown, but there was something niggling in John’s brain, other than Sherlock’s squirming and his own face looming large out of the corner of his eye.

“Sherlock, I’ve never been in a room like this before, but years of television has taught me that the police are probably standing on the other side of this mirror. Watching us. With CCTV and _enormous grudges_.”

Sherlock laughed into the crook of John’s neck, which caused John to miss a few crucial seconds because _Christ_ that was unlike anything he’d felt before, feeling the bubbling roll of someone’s laugh when pressed so tightly together. He made a grunting noise and ground against Sherlock a final time and came, keeping his eyes resolutely closed against the inelegance of it all.

Sherlock kissed him through it, and then wormed a hand between them to take care of himself whilst whispering “Lestrade has the right to hold us for two weeks, and I for one cannot be in here that long. I’m just, _oh god,_ speeding up the process of him getting bored or horrified enough to let us out. _Oh, John, John, hold me there, right there, god yes…_ ”

-

Through the looking-glass, Sally was staring at a very specific point in the interview room. Somewhere about a foot to the left of the table. Nowhere near anything else in the room. Next to her, Lestrade’s eyes were closed, and extremely turned off (though he was considering arresting his dick for treason.)

“Sir-“

“Sergeant, You know I both appreciate and value your talent at getting paperwork through faster than anyone in the Met. Please do not let me down today.”

-

John’s arm had held out, which was a good outcome for the scientific method but probably didn’t have much longer. He lowered Sherlock as carefully as possible, and then went to pull up his jeans.

“Fuck” Sherlock exhaled, wobbling a bit. “I can barely feel my legs. I think you’ve fucked me so hard you’ve given me sciatica”.

“Hypochondriac. Oh god, that was insane. Do you think we can go home now? What am I saying, that was never, ever going to work.” John looked at Sherlock sideways and burst out laughing again. “We are so fucked.”

Sherlock smirked, stepping back into his trousers quickly, if a bit gingerly, as a pair of heels clicked their way along the corridor.

Sally opened the door, one hand over her eyes. “You can go. Lestrade says he doesn’t care what you wanted that cow for anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written fairly soon after the airing of the Ganger episodes of Doctor Who, so that reference was topical at the time, I promise.


End file.
